Selene Graves writer
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I feel him slide through the tightest spaces of my being. My hips rise to meet him. I gasp his name like it’s part of my breath.
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The way he looks at me like he already owns every secret inside me. The way I lean toward him like I’ve never stopped. We sip wine. We talk. We drift. We remember.
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I pause, lifting my leg slowly and draping it over the back of the couch, exposing the damp silk between my thighs.
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But Vaelvourin did not sleep. He watched the way moonlight played on her collarbones, the rise and fall of her chest. And when he stirred, it was not to leave, but to love her again.
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I’ll ride him until the sky forgets his name and the only thing he knows is mine.
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At a candlelit masquerade, we pretended to be strangers. One touch unraveled us. until we discovered we were not alone. Someone had been watching.
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I didn’t smile. I just slid into the corner booth, back against the wall, my usual craving for solitude interrupted by something more primal.
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The intention of this ritual is to transmute emotional tension into release and renewal through sacred self-touch.
The Osmosis of Flesh 